


For A Day, Mrs Summers

by inbox



Series: GUNISHER [4]
Category: Cable (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Ass Play, Chest Hair, Embarrassment, Feminization, Humiliation, M/M, Mild Feminization, Muscles, Non-Penetrative Sex, Pectoral Fucking, Rimming, Tactile Telekinesis, Telekinesis, Telepathy, this one's all for me because this is my horny house and i make the horny rules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 14:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18896218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: “I’ve got a place in Rochester,” says Cable, too casually to be casual.Look, he's no innocent. He might be as thick as two bricks on a lot of things, but Frank knows a weak excuse for a hookup when he sees it. Cable's got some fancy teleportation bullshit that can take them from one side of the globe to the other in a heartbeat, yet here he is making a show of looking at his watch and asking if Frank would be alright with laying low and staying close to pick off the kind of bottom-feeder that Frank cleans up by the dozen, if not by the hundreds.Cable is eyeing him like a piece of prime filet, his interest rolling off him in waves. It’s not unmatched, not by a long shot, but some things are better played close to his chest.“Weak excuse,” he tells Cable, but slings his bag over his shoulder and scouts the rooftop for anything they’ve left behind. Then there’s cold white light and a pain in his ears, and they’re gone.





	For A Day, Mrs Summers

**Author's Note:**

> This one's all for me, baby.

Sometimes shit happens. It’s unavoidable. The intel was pristine. The target is always at this coffeehouse every third Friday at 4PM sharp. He has a piece of cake and a drip filter, he kisses the owner on the cheek, he goes into the storeroom to collect his takings for the month. Like clockwork, unchanging for eight months solid.

And then he didn’t show, and now all Frank has to show for the past hour is a piece of gravel that's been digging into his kneecap.

It happens. Maybe he got wind that someone was after him - that the Punisher was after him - and decided to go underground. Far less likely was that he’d heard that the mutants were interested in sitting him down for a quote unquote ‘polite conversation’, but Frank wasn’t inclined to rule it out. He’d only got Cable involved three weeks ago when he’d mentioned his current project in passing, and Cable had taken a few minutes to hunt and peck at a hard light keyboard and pull the vic’s name up on his own to-do list. Not the most pressing of targets, given that the sleazebag mostly dealt in shaking down the poor and helpless, but he’d cut enough mutant fingers in lieu of exorbitant repayment rates to pop onto Cable’s radar.

On the face of it it should’ve been a cakewalk job. A loan shark with a hard-on for knives wasn’t ever gonna make either of their personal top-ten challenge lists, but even dumb shitkickers get a lucky break sometimes.

And now he’s in the wind and Frank’s left up on a rooftop, packing up his rifle and listening to Cable have a murmured conversation with his own intelligence op.

“Eye in the sky says to put an eye on his upstate home,” says Cable, ending his call with a mumbled _g’journey_. “Apparently he’s a Sunday driver. Likes to visit his mother after collecting.”

Frank grunts and zips up his rifle bag. He knew that. Was counting on not having to make the trek upstate though. Too many other leads coming to fruition right now to hightail it out of the city and take a nice country drive.

“I’ve got a place in Rochester,” says Cable, too casually to be casual.

Frank stares at his bag for a few long seconds, then gives Cable a long look from out of the corner of his eye. Look, he's no innocent. He might be as thick as two bricks on a lot of things, but Frank knows a weak excuse for a hookup when he sees it. Cable's got some fancy teleportation bullshit that can take them from one side of the globe to the other in a heartbeat, yet here he is making a show of looking at his watch and asking if Frank would be alright with laying low and staying close to pick off the kind of bottom-feeder that Frank cleans up by the dozen, if not by the hundreds.

Cable is eyeing him like a piece of prime filet, his interest rolling off him in waves. It’s not unmatched, not by a long shot, but some things are better played close to his chest.

“Weak excuse,” he tells Cable, but slings his bag over his shoulder and scouts the rooftop for anything they’ve left behind. Then there’s cold white light and a pain in his ears, and they’re gone.

* * *

  
Cable runs his hands up Frank's sides, pulling his shirt up with him ‘til it's rucked under Frank's pits. His nipples are already hard from the rough treatment Cable’s given him from the moment they appeared in this dumpy little apartment, every pinch and twist leaving his chest pinked up and almost bruised.

He sighs reverently and pushed up one pec on the flat of his palm, squeezing and jiggling the muscle. “Amazing,” he says fondly, and squeezes harder. “You've got amazing fat tits, Frank. It drives me crazy.”

His face is on fire. He's burning up from the inside out, a mortifying hot flame turning him to charcoal and ash.

“You know what I've been thinking about?” Cable delicately kisses up his neck, dainty little pecks, completely unlike the way he's mauling Frank's chest. “How good it'd look oiling up those fantastic tits of yours and pushing them tight ‘round my dick.” He kisses Frank's ear, a hot snuffle as he breathes heavy. He’s searing hot at Frank’s back, pressed against him like a big impassable wall from calf to neck. “You know a pretty girl like you deserves a pretty pearl necklace.”

The gurgling choke Frank makes is awful. Cable smirks at him all-knowing, and cups the fly of Frank’s trousers where his dick is hard enough to hurt.

“Yeah? You like that idea?”

Stupid, _stupid_ fuckin’ question. Cable can see it in Frank’s head, how much he's horribly turned on, how much he's panting at the idea and repulsed by it just as much. He's never, ever, ever thought about this kind of shit before, being called a girl and Cable talking about his… his _chest_ , never _wanted_ this shit bef--

Cable swats at his balls and his mind switches off for a sweet blissful second.

“Thought so,” he says, intolerably smug.

He takes his time undressing Frank. Feels strange, being slowly stripped with reverence. Any time someone has taken his clothes off it’s ‘cause he’s been injured, or being booked into a cell, or something shitty and not worth thinking about.

Cable takes his time and luxuriates in the process. He runs his hands down Frank’s spine and eases his fingers under his waistband. Undoing his belt and zip is a process, delayed and hindered by Cable being focused on cupping Frank through his clothes, feeling up his dick and teasing his balls with light swats. He pushed his fingers over Frank’s hole and mumbles nonsense about how much he wants to eat him out, how good he’d feel gasping his way to orgasm on Cable’s face.

He even drops to his knees and unlaces his boots, eyelet by eyelet. Cable is so big that he’s still in eyeline with Frank’s belly, hunched over to mouth at the heavy iron bar of his dick, his spit staining the dark canvas of his tac pants a midnight black and erasing the incriminating large spot where Frank has already leaked through.

Boots next, his hands cupping Frank’s ankles as a telekinetic touch strokes up his thighs and holds his balance. Cable balls up his socks and discards Frank’s beat to shit paramedic boots next to the pile of own boots and sneakers, all as big as boats.

Dizzily Frank thinks to ask about the bright yellow shin-high boots with Robin Hood tops, but Cable bursts into laughter in his head, loud as a church bell. “Another time,” he says, looking up at him. “I’ll wear ‘em for you.”

He doesn’t get the joke. Then again he doesn’t have to, not with the way Cable is tugging down his zip, lips parted and cheek upturned, ready for Frank’s sopping wet cock to brand him across the face. No need for jokes about that, not when the sight and sound and feel of it is _so fucking good,_ he might die here and now with only a few regrets on his conscious.

Cable blows him with his eyes open, bright innocent blue and gleaming white, so he doesn't miss a moment of Frank weakly saying _oh Christ._ Red’d have a fit if he knew how much Frank was blaspheming these days, and in what exact circumstances.

An invisible touch strokes Frank’s wrists and tickles the palms of his hands, and lifts them up to rest on Cable's head. He reflexively digs his fingers into that thick silver hair, holding him in place to shallowly thrust into his mouth and slide over that hot tongue while staring blankly at a wall of family photos.

 _That’s a lotta spandex,_ he thinks muzzily. _No colour coordination._

_Another thing I’ll wear if you’re a good girl._

He gets close embarrassingly fast. These days he's not really inclined to make up justifications for blowing his wad too quick on occasion. The real reasons are solid enough: not enough sleep, not enough sex, the fact that he’s being sucked off by someone he finds maddeningly, intoxicatingly attractive. Cable using those thick metal fingers to roll and pinch at his balls doesn't help either, nor does the fact that he’s openly broadcasting into Frank's head how much he loves sucking his dick, how good he feels on Cable's tongue, pouring wet down Cable’s throat.

Cable is, when he’s in the mood, the stuff of Frank’s wet dreams. He gets into Frank’s head and inspects every little thing that gets Frank’s motor running; sifting through his memories and fantasies and idle thoughts to work out how to upend his expectations, needs and and wants, and leave him crawling after Cable for more.

It’s a revolting invasion of his privacy. He loves it and hates it equally, gets lost in the weeds when he pissily tells Cable to get out of his head and then deep inside wails in protest when he does.

Of course he’s gonna be gritting his teeth too quick and saying _hold up, stop_ while choking himself in a death grip ‘round the base of his dick. Who wouldn't? Not anyone with half a brain, not with Cable on his knees, lips reddened, delicately thumbing away a thick river of spit from the corner of his mouth and winking with that inhuman glowing eye.

Cable lavishes a messy open-mouthed kiss to the flushed red crown of his cock, always the insufferable smartass. _Frankie, Frankie,_ he says gravely, mouth occupied driving Frank out of his mind. _Were you saving this for later?_

“Was thinking you can ride it,” he says, giving him a push, two fingers square on his forehead. “Smartass.”

“You're such a sweet thoughtful girl,” says Cable, ignoring the violent red flush that near instantly appears on Frank’s cheeks as he gets off the floor with a huff of exertion. “C’mon, pretty thing. Let’s go to bed so I can give those amazing tits the attention they deserve.”

Cable strips in record speed, hopping on one foot down the hallway as he kicks off his boots and trousers. He tosses Frank on the bed then sends his shirt flying into the corner, and crawls up the coverlet on his knees. The plain black jock he favours barely holds his erection, thick and hard and already enough to make Frank’s mouth water in anticipation.

“Fuck,” says Frank. “Jesus, you're a sight.”

“Yeah?” Cable swings one big thigh over his hips and settles his ass snugly against Frank’s throbbing neglected cock, dripping wet across his belly. He rolls his hips, once, twice, and rises back to his knees before Frank can even react, let alone try to get some friction on his poor untouched dick. “Acceptable?”

He nods dumbly, already dick-drunk without even getting his hands on Cable. “Yeah,” he croaks, and rests his palms on Cable’s thighs, dragging against the grain of his hair and the ridges of metal, framing his thumbs ‘round the hard jut of his cock. “Not bad, Summers.” He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his jock and tugs him forward, up his body.

Cable sits over his chest, a big solid weight that compressed his ribs and pins him to the mattress. From below he looks even more massive; a towering sculpture of well-used muscle and living metal, thick and solid.

It's everything he's been fantasising about - and experiencing - for months, and months, and _months_. Being pinned down by Cable's bulk, being made to feel so small, so fragile, but every fucking time, every _fucking time,_ his dumb animal brain shakes free from its leash and suddenly it's too much. Too much like getting caught, too much like getting captured, getting…

He closes his eyes, breathing so hard his throat hurts.

Cable nudges at his brain. _Frank?_

 _A minute,_ he thinks desperately. _Give me a minute._

He feels Cable shift his weight, making ready to get off and move away. Frank is faster though, gripping on to those massive thighs with fingers that feel frozen solid. _Don't,_ he says. _Don't, don’t. I like it. Just need a minute._

He sees himself through Cable's eyes, as clear as if he was looking himself. He looks like a wreck. Cuts, scrapes, old marks, new scars. It's been a busy month and it shows, right there in the big smudges under his eyes. Some stitches about ready to fall out in the middle of a goddamn pearler of a bruise smudged on his cheek, two weeks old and only just gone yellow. A fresh red mark on the thick column of his neck, a reminder for later of how he willingly tilted his jaw to permit Cable to savage his neck like a dog on fresh meat, moaned in encouragement at the feel of his teeth digging into thin skin and marking him up.

Cable cups his face and tenderly strokes his swollen cheek with his thumb. Frank hates, hates, _hates_ the way he instantly melts into it, closing his eyes and going pliable.

“God, you're gorgeous,” says Cable. It should sound stupid as fuck; patently untrue even if Frank was in mint condition and didn't look like reheated dogshit. He sounds sincere, the way Cable has of saying things with total bullish honesty that should at least be cripplingly embarrassing at a minimum.  

He pets his cock while Frank stalls out, looking at Frank framed between his thighs with a soft expression, like Frank's the best thing he's ever laid eyes on. Normally Cable’s expressions regarding Frank and nudity are on the hungry side, ready to tear him apart with his teeth and consume him down to the bones. Now he looks kinda dumbstruck, staring down at him like there's so much to look at that he can't decide where to begin. Like Frank's the prom queen letting Cable cop a feel in the back seat of his car.

He's allowed this, he tells himself as Cable patiently waits for him to come back on line. Useless moments like this, time away from the endless dirty war. Decadence. Weakness. Being wanted. Chasing pleasure.

He rolls his head on the pillowcase, one good stretch from shoulder to shoulder, and rubs his palms against the grain of the coarse hair on Cable’s right leg, the messy line of metal zippered into flesh running down his left leg. That stupid awestruck expression on Cable’s big ol’ boxy head is the thing that kicks Frank’s ass and clears his mental logjam.

“C’mon,” he says, staring at Cable’s terrifying metal hand stroking that pretty cock, pink and perfect. “You gonna do this or not, Summers?”

In retrospect, the hungry grateful noise Cable makes at that question was worth every bit of effort it took Frank to get there.

The bedside table rattles and the drawer slides out with a squeak as a bar of something indistinguishable and yellow soars up and out. Cable snatches it out of the air and lays it reverently in the channel between Frank's pecs. It begins to melt almost immediately, slipping sideways and inching down his sternum with every breath.

“Nothing but the best for you, pretty girl,” he says, nudging the brick back up to his collarbones.

 _Shea butter,_ he says. _Organic._

 _I don’t care,_ retorts Frank. _Touch me._

He rubs the bar between his hands, flesh and metal, works it enough to get a good slippery noise when he parts his hands and starts massaging Frank's chest. He kneads the swell of his muscles, groping the meat of his pectorals with big strong hands. It almost hurts, the way he pushes and digs in with his fingertips, straining the muscle against his chest wall.

“You softening me up?”

Cable snorts, sending the bar sailing back into the drawer with a look. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Besides,” he adds, greasy fingers trying to pinch Frank’s nipples and failing, “Where’s the fun in that?”

 _Thought you liked the finer things in life,_ he thinks, eyes drifting closed despite his intentions of staying focused and alert. Cable’s touch feels good. It feels really good.

He’s under no illusions about men liking him for his physique. Most of his online dates have that as a starring role, or at least that’s the most appealing hook. Physically fit middle aged man with a generous spread of body hair is about the sum total of his profile, or at least that’s what his picture (belly to shoulders, just enough neck and chin to prove he’s a real person) boldly advertises. More than a handful of men have buried their faces between his pectorals and mouthed at his arms and thanked their lucky stars for tapping him in the first place, but no one - no one - has ever gone to town quite like this.

Hell of a thing. Hell of a feeling. Being admired and being ado— his mind skitters away from the word, unwilling to speak it into existence. Some realisations are too big to be had in the heat of the moment.

 _Frank, Frank, Frank,_ says Cable in his mind, his name dripping like molten gold, sizzling down to paint his bones in secret. _One of these days you’ll—_

“Don’t get distracted,” he says gruffly. Frank opens one eye with what feels like herculean effort, clumsy hands pulling aside Cable’s jock to free that gorgeous dick, flushed rosy pink at the head. He jacks him awkwardly, wrist bent back as he works his neat foreskin back and forwards, smearing the single perfect pearl of precum that wells up under his touch.

“Push your tits together,” says Cable. He braces against the bed head and presses his dick into the channel of Frank’s pectorals, a broad palm holding himself flush. Frank pushes with his palms and deepens the glide for Cable, his groan echoing the deep rumble of satisfaction that comes from deep in Cable’s chest, leonine and rich.

“Oath, Frank,” says Cable, staring down at the line of his dick smothered by coarse dark hair and thick meaty muscle. “So much better than I imagined. Your fantastic tits, god…” He thrusts faster, staring fixedly between his thighs to watch himself fuck Frank’s pecs, his face slack with undisguised pleasure.

Something deep in Frank’s gut twists, selfish and prideful, yes, but the things Cable says… the things he’s calling Frank… it’s humiliating and horrible and fantastic and some secret part of him is starving for more, so endlessly hungry.

He cranes up ‘til his neck hurts, just enough to reach the head of Cable’s cock. The smooth crown tastes like shea butter, oily and earthy, and for a stupid second he wonders if that’s the secret to Cable’s dick being so perfect and pink and velvety to the touch. So unlike his own cock and balls, all angry flushed red and dark with thick veins, as ugly as its owner.

“I’ll grease you up and we’ll find out,” says Cable with a breathless chuckle, ignoring the flustered flush that blooms up from Frank’s neck. _Always thinking so loud,_ he adds without spite.

He wipes out the defensive retort in Frank’s mouth by idly filling his head with a fantasy of laying him out on this bed, in this room, and greasing Frank’s dick and heavy balls and needy hole with silky buttery oil and keeping him on the edge of orgasm until he’s twisting himself in knots begging to come, riding Cable’s fingers and desperately holding himself through a miserable dry orgasm, or, _hell,_ getting ugly and red in the face because he’s come without asking, dripping all over himself like a useless slut.

“Jesus,” Frank says in horrified awful desperate want, voice muffled ‘round the crown of Cable’s dick resting on his lip. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Yeah?” Cable sounds like he’s hanging on by a thread. “Sound good, Frank? Wanna be my good girl?”

“Eat shit,” he says on pure reflex, but Cable can see into his head, can see that he’s thinking about it. He can see that he’s never gonna stop thinking about it, because Cable can see everything, can see that he’s thinking about Cable tossing him onto this normal bed in this normal room, taking him on the homely blue comforter and groping his tits and fucking his pussy and telling him he’s such a good girl, such a good slutty girl for Cable and Cable only—

Cable grunts and comes. His semen feels searing hot as it floods over Frank’s collarbones and dribbles down the column of his throat, a thick load that keeps on coming, pulse after pulse after pulse until he’s slouching over like his strings have been cut. His expression is one of a man who has been drained dry, eyes tracking nothing as he sucks back great deep breaths.

“Bright fucking Lady,” he says after a while, wheezing like he’s run a marathon.

The great Nathan Summers, unmade by grinding himself off on Frank’s chest. He grins up from the pillows, unduly smug, stroking the fleshy part of Cable’s knees.

He raises an eyebrow and reaches back, torso twisted long and thick, the rippling curves and peaks of sculpted metal muscles catching the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Cable seizes Frank’s softened cock in his greasy metal hand, alien-slick, and smears the copious precum that Frank's been leaking over his belly for too long.

Frank bucks up into the tight choke of his fingers, just how he likes it, always hard enough to hurt.

Cable tsks loudly. “Frankie, Frankie. You got this wet for me?”

“Yeah,” he says between gritted teeth. “Yeah. For you.”

“That pretty pussy going unfucked all this time. What a shame.”

He screws his eyes closed and gasps, a reedy _ah-ah-ah_ that's unlike any noise he's made, or he's capable of making. “Shut up,” he hisses out between clenched teeth when he can get himself together. “Jesus, Summers. Shut up.”

Cable rolls off him, always so nimble for a man so physically imposing. He touches him on the ankle, a light forewarning, just enough of a hint that Frank quashes the wild dog instinct to lash out when Cable grabs him by the hips and jerks him around, dragging Frank over the edge of the mattress.

He drops to his knees and shoves his legs apart, hard enough that his hip pops in protest. Cable slings one scarred-up thigh over his shoulder and tips Frank up at the hips like a sack of potatoes.

Frank shoves his arm over his face, wheezing into the crook of his elbow as Cable splits him wide and goes down on his ass like something outta his wet dreams. Big broad licks over his hole, just how he likes it, wet enough to make noise when he pulls back to get a breath. The gleam of Cable’s eye backlights his dick and balls, and after he blindly reaches down to grab at Cable’s head, mercilessly holding him in place to mindlessly hump his face, his tousled silver hair shines like an undeserved halo.

“Get yourself off,” he orders. His stubble prickles at the meat of Frank's ass, needle sharp. “Want to feel you to come while I’m eating your pussy.”

“Yeah,” he says, not listening. He's sweeping his palms from belly to neck, his chest a mess of cum and oil, greasy and slick and matting down his hair in dark whorls. He rubs at his nipples and pushes at his pecs, staring unfocused at the popcorn ceiling and letting himself just feel good, and feel everything, _and feel._

Cable shoves into his head, sloppy and distracted. _Tell me you want me to eat your pussy, Frank._

“Jesus,” he says, his voice ragged. “Cable…”

_Frank. Tell me you want your cunt licked._

He makes a desperate tight noise, mouth half open as he silently mouths the words. He can't say it, god. It’s fine… it’s acceptable to think this kinda shit in his own head, but saying it, admitting it, that’s too much, too far. He wants to say it. He never wants to say it, ever.

A phantom touch at his wrists drags his hands from his chest and forces him to touch himself, wrapping his fingers ‘round his dick and stroking slow until he rouses himself and takes over, faster and meaner.

“Say it, Frank. Tell me how much you want it.” Cable spreads his hole wide with his fingers and spits on him. He can feel it trickling over his rim and down his crack, getting colder and colder.  “I want to hear it. ‘Nathan, I need you to eat my pussy.’”

He speeds up, fingers choked so tight ‘round his dick that it hurts. He palms his balls, pushing them up high as he rubs at his taint, short sharp strokes. Frank tries to speak but his throat sticks and clicks in an ugly noise.

_Frank._

“Lick my pussy,” he blurts out, the awful shameful words backing up in his throat ‘til there's nowhere to go but out. “Eat me, fuck, Nathan, eat my pussy.”

His knuckles bump against Cable's nose and he makes a despairing noise in the back of his throat when he feels him move away.

He doesn’t go far though, just enough to fold Frank up on himself. Big broad hands catch him behind his knees and push him up and up, spine lifting from the bed knob by knob as Cable kneels one leg up on the mattress. Dozens of soft hands take his weight, holding him up as Cable hooks his thumbs in his ass and stares down at him, eye blazing.

 _Gonna watch you blow over your own pretty tits, Frank._ He won't let Frank look away, staring him down as he eats out his hole, predator pinning down prey.

More hands touch him, gentle and sweet. Soft touches against his eyelids, his lips, cradling his face, tickling the tender skin at the back of his balls. An invisible grip wraps around his dick, wrapping him smooth and tight, and Frank makes a strangled ugly hungry noise when he feels a flicker of touch dipping into his piss slit, a threat and a promise both.

He hates this. God, he fucking loves this so much.

He can’t talk. Can barely breathe even, his diaphragm crushed on itself as Cable holds him like he weighs nothing. The walls grow dark and the ceiling swims as he he pants shallow and fast, frantically jerking off like he hasn’t done in years, ‘cause he hasn’t been this desperate in years.

Cable slurps at his ass, noisy and wet. _Best tight little pussy I’ve ever tasted, Frank. Bet you’re gonna taste even better when someone finally fucks you pregnant._

Frank throws his head back and comes with a wild animal yowl, thick ropes of semen hitting his chest, his neck, his chin. He jacks himself until he can't take it anymore, nerves jangling in a discordant screeching climax until he says _enough enough enough_ and twists like an eel, desperate to get loose. Cable lets go of his telekinetic hold and he collapses to the side, fallen boneless across the homey blue coverlet.

He’s done. He’s finished. Stick a fork in him. Frank closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, drawing in enough air that his lungs ache. He can feel Cable gently slide off the bed, the mattress going back to shape as he briefly squeezes Frank’s foot.

It’s weirdly sweet.

Frank can hear him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and humming over the sound of running water, and feel him squatting in the back of Frank’s mind, unobtrusive and watchful.

He dozes for a while, luxuriating in the feel of a soft mattress and a warm blanket under him. The pillow smells like Summers, his antiperspirant and Deep Heat, and Frank breathes it in as he touches himself, thigh to belly to chest, before grunting in resolution to get up and get clean. Being painted in cum always loses its appeal quickly, no matter how much he’s deeply into it at the time.

“Castle,” says Cable, pausing to spit his toothpaste into the sink. “I hear you put out for two pearl necklaces.”

“Stow it,” he says with only a token trace of rancor, tired down to his bones and resentful of how sticky he feels. He yawns and stretches against the door frame, fingers dug into the wood as he leans into the pull through his back and his chest.  “You got a towel?”

Cable nods in the direction of the towel rack. A towel hangs off-center, blue with a pattern of white daisies. Next to it is a plain white towel, slightly threadbare and well used. Clearly Cable's towel, and going by the frayed embroidery on the end, clearly stolen from the Xavier Institute. “All yours,” he says around his toothbrush, and watches Frank with naked interest as he tests the shower and steps into the stall when it's steaming hot.

Frank turns his face up to the shower head and, for a split second, he imagines what this must look like to someone outside of this, someone walking in to this domesticity without context of who they are or what they do. Seeing himself being given the (relatively) nice towel, standing naked in a bathroom with Cable. Brushing his teeth, having a shower. Being domestic. Playing house. Playing Cable's doting husband, and being fucked like his slutty pretty wife.

In the mirror Cable’s face runs through at least five distinct expressions in barely a second. He coughs as he rinses out his mouth, ears turning beet red.

Maybe in a different time. Maybe in a different reality. They could wash up and go back to bed for real, and he could relax and not wake up feeling like he's got a boot on his chest because this kind of decadence is a waste of time that he can't afford.

“I should go,” he says slowly. He picks up the bar of soap and rubs it between his hands, getting up a thick lather. “I can't be away.”

He wants to go back to bed. He wants whatever this is that they’re both avoiding.

“Yeah Frank,” says Cable. He knuckles at his temple and draws himself to his full height. “Of course.” He opens the shower door and steps inside, bundled up close to Frank’s back in the cramped stall.

Jesus, he’s weak. This is the weakness that’ll get him killed in this war.

“‘Til Sunday,” he says firmly. “No longer.”

“Of course,” says Cable again, and he’s got Frank against the tiles with both hands cupping his face, kissing him sweet. He tastes like spearmint toothpaste, something so plain and homely that it makes the pressure bear down on Frank’s chest all over again.

 _Let’s get you cleaned up_ , he thinks, dragging a finger through the oily film on Frank’s chest, disturbing the water beads that cling to his thick hair.

_Don’t get me so filthy in the first place, asshole._

Cable smirks and pecks him on the temple, and stoops down low, close enough that his lips brush against Frank’s ear, “Don’t take that tone with me, Mrs Summers.”

His peal of laughter at Frank’s pissy expression bounces off the shower stall and fills the tiny apartment.

He can be wasteful and decadent and weak - so very, very weak - just for a day. It’s only for a day.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a bad comix blog where I'm always logged on, always online, always posting gay Frank conspiracies. Say hi.  
> [stryfeposting.tumblr.com](http://stryfeposting.tumblr.com)


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